1
Storm Warning
Dove
Seventeenminutes.
That’s how long I have before the electromagnetic storm hits Kepler Station and traps me here—or kills me if I’m stupid enough to try flying through it.
“Captain, storm probability has increased to ninety-seven percent,” Pickles announces from the Rolling Pin’s console, his tone carrying that precise formality that somehow makes everything sound like a criticism. “I calculate your delivery window is closing at a rate that statistical analysis suggests is... unfortunate.”
“Thanks for that ray of sunshine, Pickles.”
“I am not equipped to generate solar radiation. I am merely providing relevant meteorological data.”
The atmospheric readings on my nav console blink angry red as the numbers climb. My delivery window slams shut, and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it except pilot this beat-up courier ship faster and pray to whatever gods listen to broke couriers with mounting debts and a really bad habit of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
“Come on, Rolling Pin.” I pat the dashboard like she’s a nervous animal instead of a ship held together by spite and outdated repair patches. Dad always said I was stubborn enough to flatten anything in my path—hence the name—and right now we both need to live up to that legacy. “Get me on the ground before Mother Nature decides we’re target practice.”
“I have documented exactly 847 days of your operational partnership with this vessel,” Pickles says. “Anthropomorphic encouragement has shown a zero percent correlation with improved ship performance. However, I acknowledge it appears to provide you with psychological comfort, so I shall refrain from further commentary on the practice.”
My comm display shows three unread messages from the Blackstar Collective, each one probably more creative than the last about which body parts they plan to repossess if I don’t clearmy debt. I don’t open them. I know what they say. The payment from this delivery is supposed to finally get them off my back, but only if I make it on time.
Four days. I have four days before the deadline, and this storm is about to eat a week of my life.
Famous last words, Dove.
The comm crackles. “OOPS courier vessel, state your purpose and authorization.”
Deep voice. Precise. The kind of tone that suggests he doesn’t waste words and definitely won’t waste sympathy on a late delivery pilot.
“Captain, the voice pattern analysis indicates Lividian physiology,” Pickles offers helpfully. “Specifically, male, approximately mid-thirties human-equivalent age, elevated body temperature consistent with the species. His formal speech patterns suggest either military background or extended isolation from casual social interaction.”
“Not helping, Pickles.”
“I was providing tactical intelligence. You frequently complain about insufficient data.”
“This is Dove Foxton with your scheduled agricultural delivery.” I fight another gust, feeling the enhanced gravity already pulling at the ship. “I know I’m running late—had a situation at Veridian station involving some very angry customs officials and a complete misunderstanding about bio-hazardous materials.”
“Captain, your cortisol levels are elevated,” Pickles observes. “I suggest presenting a more confident demeanor to avoid appearing unprofessional.”
Through my viewport, Kepler Station looms ahead—a sprawling complex of atmospheric processors that looks like someone built a city inside a mechanical creature’s chest cavity.Not exactly a vacation destination, but then again, none of my deliveries ever are.
“Your delivery window was scheduled for zero-eight-hundred hours.” Each word is clipped, formal. “Current atmospheric conditions indicate storm escalation beyond acceptable parameters for departure within sixty standard minutes.”
Sixty minutes. Shit. And here I’d been hoping for a quick drop-off and escape.
I should have listened to Mother Morrison’s warning this morning. But when have I ever been smart about warnings?
Mother runs Junction One, the main hub for OOPS—Orion Outpost Postal Service, though everyone calls it OOPS because apparently someone thought naming an interstellar courier service after a mistake was peak branding genius. We’re the ones who go where the big shipping companies won’t: remote stations, hostile planets, places where the profit margins are thin and the danger pay is the only thing keeping us solvent.
Mother’s been dispatching couriers for thirty years. She’s seen smuggling operations, pirate raids, and that one incident with the sentient cargo nobody talks about anymore. When she gives you a warning, you’re supposed to listen.
She’d looked at my manifest this morning with that expression that means trouble. “Kepler Station. Remote terraforming facility. Single occupant plus dependent.” A pause, heavy with meaning. “You sure about this one, Dove?”
I’d needed those credits too badly to be cautious. The Blackstar Collective doesn’t care that I’m twenty-six and running on three hours of sleep and one terrible protein bar. They care about payment schedules, and mine is overdue enough that their last message included anatomical diagrams.
“Remote stations make people strange,” Mother had said. “Isolated. Territorial.”
